


kiss me like you mean it / all my little words

by newamsterdam



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angry Kissing, Awkward Dates, Blood and Injury, Canon Compliant, Coitus Interruptus, Domestic Fluff, Drinking, First Kiss, Forehead Kisses, Future Fic, Getting Together, Graduation, Jealousy, Love Confessions, M/M, Meme, Morning Kisses, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-05-31 22:40:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6490162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newamsterdam/pseuds/newamsterdam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short fics in response to various memes/asks on tumblr. Mostly canon-compliant and domestic. Each chapter stands alone, multiple pairings. Between 500-2500 words each.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. kuroken | "good morning" kiss

**Author's Note:**

> meme originally posted [here](http://newamsterdame.tumblr.com/post/142422130800/send-me-a-number-and-a-pairing-and-ill-do-a). feel free to request.

i. 

Kuroo’s waiting for him at the corner between their houses, just like he has been most every morning, for as long as Kenma can remember. He’s tapping through something on his phone, probably a message from Kai or Bokuto. There’s a small smile lurking at the corner of his mouth, his lips twitching slightly as types out a response to whomever he’s texting. 

There’s a lingering sense of newness underneath Kenma’s skin. He didn’t get any sleep last night, which is usually only the case after he’s gotten a new game or is dreading something coming the next morning. Last night hadn’t been like that, however. Instead, he’d lain on his back in bed and stared at the ceiling, thinking back on the day’s events with nothing like dread.

_I like you, Kenma. It doesn’t have to change anything if you don’t want it to, but I want you to know. I really like you._

Now, he’s looking at the person whose words echoed in his head all night. As though he senses Kenma’s gaze, Kuroo looks up and his smile blooms completely. It’s a little lop-sided, a dimple indenting one cheek and not the other. Not for the first time, Kenma realizes how precious this smile of Kuroo’s is. It’s not something most people get to see.

Kuroo tucks his phone into his pocket as Kenma approaches. For a split-second, Kenma thinks that everything will be exactly as it was before—he’ll set off down the sidewalk and Kuroo will walk at his side, and they won’t mention yesterday or much of anything at all as they take the train to school. 

But everything isn’t exactly the same. And Kuroo isn’t letting things go back to normal. Because he’s shifting slightly, reaching forward and brushing Kenma’s hair away from his face with a gentle touch. He’s leaning in, bringing their faces close together. He hedges at the last moment, and before Kenma can realize that _Kuroo had been about to kiss him_ , Kuroo’s lips are pressed against his forehead. 

“Good morning,” he says quietly, pulling away. There’s a blush rising along his cheeks, barely noticeable under his tanned skin. 

Kenma blinks at him, once and then twice. He opens his mouth, but doesn’t say anything.

Kuroo purses his lips together, eyes widening just slightly. “Sorry?” he says, before the panic truly sets in. “Sorry, that was weird, wasn’t it? I won’t do it again, if you didn’t like it.” 

Kenma huffs, the barest hint of a laugh. He shakes his head. “It was a little weird. But so are you.”

Kuroo runs one hand through his hair, considering this. “Good weird, or bad weird?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Kenma says slowly, after a moment’s thought. He starts walking down the sidewalk, towards the train station. “Try again tomorrow, so we can make sure.”

_You don’t have to look at me like that, Kuro. I really like you, too._

ii.

Within a few months, it’s become a ritual. Kuroo’s still waiting for him on the corner every morning, the same as ever. But now Kenma stops deliberately in front of him, tilting his head up expectantly. Sometimes, Kuroo will chuckle before he leans down and kisses Kenma gently on the brow. 

“Still weird?” he asks, every so often. He ducks his head as he says this, playing at being coy.

At times like that, it’s best not to indulge Kuroo too much. So Kenma just rolls his eyes, and grabs Kuroo by the collar to drag him down to eye-level.

“I’m getting used to it,” he says. And then he kisses Kuroo on the lips.


	2. iwaoi | drunk/sloppy kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> established relationship; future fic.

Oikawa has already been home for two hours when he hears the front door of the apartment open. He’s freshly showered, snuggled under his blankets in boxers and a tank that hangs too loose at the arms. Glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, he sighs his way through the book in front of him as he tries to keep himself awake. It’s a bit of a losing battle, words all blurring together until he’s alerted by the sound of someone tossing their keys onto the end table in the hall and struggling out of their shoes.

Whoever it is— _and whoever could it possibly be?_ —isn’t having the best time of it. Oikawa hears a thud against the wall, and then a muttered, emphatic, “Fuck.” Oikawa smiles to himself, covering half his face with his book even though there’s no one else in the room to see him.

That changes quickly enough, as the bedroom door swings open to reveal Iwaizumi Hajime in all his rumpled glory—shirt untucked from his jeans, feet clad only in socks, delightfully befuddled expression on his face. He scowls at Oikawa like he’s never seen him before, like he’s trying to figure out what his presence means.

“You,” he says at length.

Oikawa lifts his chin, waggles the fingers of one hand in a wave. “Me,” he agrees. 

The furrow between Iwaizumi’s brows deepens as he shuffles his way towards the bed. He’s still staring at Oikawa with a gaze that would be much more intimidating if his pupils weren’t dilated and his cheeks weren’t quite so red. 

“You’re here,” he breaths, words slurring together into half a question. 

“I decided to catch the late night train,” Oikawa explains, shutting his book and putting it on the bedside table. “But then I came home and you were nowhere to be found, Iwa-chan!”

Iwaizumi frowns. “You’re not supposed to be here until tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Oikawa says, tilting his head. “But I took an earlier train. Try and keep up, please.”

“Hanamaki invited me out tonight, because you’re not supposed to be here until tomorrow.” It’s more words than Iwaizumi has strung together since he’s been home—he lays them out slowly and deliberately. 

“That’s rude.” Oikawa pouts. “I like drinking with you and Makki.” 

“You’re in training.” Still frowning, Iwaizumi reaches out to jab Oikawa in the side. Oikawa squeals and shifts away, and Iwaizumi overreaches and ends up falling forward, his legs dangling off the side of the bed. Oikawa looks down at him fondly as Iwaizumi struggles to right himself, shifting from side to side ineffectively like an overturned turtle. 

Oikawa chuckles, reaches out to stroke one hand through Iwaizumi’s hair. Iwaizumi gives up trying to get back up, and instead uses Oikawa as leverage to pull himself more fully onto the bed. He ends up face-planted against Oikawa’s chest, his hands braced almost painfully against Oikawa’s forearms. 

“Ow, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa grumbles, grappling with Iwaizumi’s arms to try and move him to a more comfortable position. “At least take off your pants before climbing all over me.” 

After a few moments of silence, Iwaizumi stirs and pushes himself off of Oikawa, into a half-seated position. Oikawa watches him intently, realizing after a moment that Iwaizumi is taking his words to heart when he starts grappling with his belt buckle. It’s a more complicated process than it should be, but with a bit of delicately-timed help from Oikawa Iwaizumi manages to shuffle out of his jeans and then starts struggling with the buttons of his shirt. 

“Never drinking with him again,” he mutters under his breath, darkly, when his shirt finally falls away, leaving him in only his undershirt and boxers. He flops over onto his back, staring blankly up at the ceiling.

“It’s justice,” Oikawa decides, turning over onto his side and propping up his head with one hand. “I leave for two weeks and you have all sorts of fun without me. It’s rude, and now you’re paying for it.”

Iwaizumi mutters something to himself, dragging one hand over his face. 

“What’s that?”

Iwaizumi blinks at him owlishly, then repeats himself. “We went out tonight, because tomorrow I was going to stay in and wait for you.”

“Oh,” Oikawa says. His cheeks suddenly feel warm.

Shame has apparently given way to the steady persuasion of alcohol, because now Iwaizumi’s shuffling closer to burry his face against Oikawa’s neck. “Don’t go away so long next time,” he tells the skin just above Oikawa’s clavicle.

Oikawa sighs fondly, running his hands over Iwaizumi’s arms. “It’s the Olympic team, Iwa-chan. You don’t really get to tell them no.” 

“Don’t care,” Iwaizumi says. And then, in a quieter voice, “I missed you.” 

Oikawa presses his hands against Iwaizumi’s flushed cheeks. “I like drunk Iwa-chan,” he decides. “So cute.”

Iwaizumi’s brow furrows again, but he quickly gives up on his ire to push his hands against Oikawa’s shoulders so that he can position himself to peck at Oikawa’s lips. “I mean it,” he grumbles, before he leans down to kiss Oikawa’s cheeks, his chin. “I missed you. Tooru.”

Before Oikawa can respond—and for once he’s at a loss for words, anyway—Iwaizumi is kissing him again, the press of his lips insistent even though his grip on Oikawa’s shoulders is shaky. He tastes like his favorite Suntory beer, his tongue thick and uncoordinated when it presses between Oikawa’s lips. 

Oikawa sighs happily and melts down against the pillows, letting Iwaizumi curl up against his side as they kiss lazily. Iwaizumi’s hands shift to Oikawa’s upper arms, pressing him down into the bed while Iwaizumi litters his face with sloppy, damp kisses. It’s warm and uncoordinated and lazy, and Oikawa feels two weeks of training and fatigue slowly drift away as he concentrates on Iwaizumi’s grip on him. 

Iwaizumi is yanking the neck of Oikawa’s tank aside to attack his throat when he finally notices, finally pulls back with that same adorably confused expression.

“This is my shirt,” he says, looking down at Oikawa suspiciously.

Oikawa just opens his arms, grinning at Iwaizumi. “Maybe I missed you too, Iwa-chan.” 

That seems to be a good enough answer, because Iwaizumi is snuggling back against Oikawa’s chest, the two of them tangled up and giggling, happy.


	3. kuroken | "i almost lost you" kiss

Kuroo blinks open his eyes to an unfocused world, blurred like an Impressionist painting. The white room is punctuated with spots of color—a red jacket thrown over a chair in the corner, the yellow-gold light streaming in through the wide window, and the smudge of black and blond in front of him. 

He’s sitting propped up in bed, crisp sheets tucked around him neatly. He can’t remember ever having woken up in such a position before—usually, he’s rolled over onto his stomach, surrounded by pillows and sheets that block out all light and noise. He usually can’t fall asleep, otherwise. 

He can’t remember falling asleep in the first place, this time.

“Ow, fuck,” he mutters, raising one hand to his forehead as a stabbing pain shoots through his skull. 

The movement wakes the person sleeping at his bedside, head bowed over Kuroo’s lap. He blinks as he lifts his head, rubbing at his eyes with the back of one hand as he sits up and pointedly straightens out his spine.

“Kuro,” he says softly.

“Kenma,” Kuroo says in response, still a little confused. Kenma’s face is pale and drawn, eyes circled dark with fatigue and rimmed in red. The sight sparks recognition in the back of Kuroo’s mind. “Have you been _crying_?”

Kenma frowns, ducks his head. “I haven’t.”

“You have,” Kuroo insists, and for once he isn’t just ribbing Kenma. It’s impossible to believe his words, when the evidence is plain on Kenma’s face. 

“I haven’t.”

“You have.”

“I _haven’t_.” 

“You _have_.”

Kenma opens his mouth to argue, then looks over at Kuroo and presses his lips together, cheeks rounded. It’s a distinctly adorable pout, but it doesn’t explain why Kenma’s been crying. And Kuroo needs to know, because the idea that something or someone had upset Kenma and he wasn’t there to do anything about it curls around his heart and squeezes it painfully. 

Kenma shakes his head, leaning over to brush the hair back from Kuroo’s forehead gently. His touch is delicate, almost hesitant. He’s being absurdly careful, considering the fact that Kuroo’s not the one who generally minds physical contact. 

“How’re you feeling?” he asks in a slow, quiet voice. 

The question makes Kuroo actually consider—his head feels fuzzy and heavy, the pain from earlier dulled to a low ache at the base of his skull. He knows he’d been asleep, earlier, but he hardly feels rested at all. 

“I hurt,” he says finally, voice rising in question. He knows he’s in pain, so the real question is more _Why do I hurt?_

He doesn’t like being confused. Kuroo’s always prided himself on his skills in observation and his ability to plan. Not knowing things puts him at a disadvantage, makes him feel vulnerable and raw and scared in a way he’s rarely experienced. His fingers dig into the bed sheets, twisting at them nervously as he tries to ground himself. 

But of course, Kenma notices. Before Kuroo can panic, Kenma’s leaning over to take both of Kuroo’s hands in his own, clutching them tightly. 

“You’re okay,” he says. His voice is hoarse. “You just hit your head. Do you remember?”

Kuroo shakes his head. “I—maybe? I was at practice, and you were behind me, and—” He cuts off, sharp pain disturbing his thoughts. He winces, but Kenma’s let go of one of his hands to reach up and massage at Kuroo’s head gently through his hair. 

“You went for a block. The ball hit your head, and you fell back against the court.” Kenma relays these facts as if they’re out of a history book, entirely distanced from himself. He frowns, then murmurs, “There was _blood_ , Kuro.” 

“Am I okay?” 

Kenma bites down on his lower lip, but nods vigorously. “No concussion. But you passed out, and I couldn’t—”

He isn’t crying. But there are tears in his eyes, and his face is pinched as he tries to keep them from falling. Just as they’re about to, he pulls Kuroo towards him and presses their lips together, warm and steady. Kuroo breathes in through his nose, because Kenma doesn’t pause for air. He keeps kissing Kuroo, insistently, desperate in a way it’s never been between them before. He kisses Kuroo like he may never have another chance to.

He never quite pulls away, just shifts his angle so that he’s rubbing his nose against Kuroo’s, and then they’re cheek to cheek, and finally he tucks Kuroo’s head under his chin and just holds him, arms around Kuroo’s broad shoulders as they sit in pensive silence. 

“I’m okay,” Kuroo says after a moment, speaking into the soft fabric of Kenma’s shirt.

“You’re okay,” Kenma says with a sigh. “We’re okay.”


	4. bokuaka | jealous kiss

Akaashi Keiji receives his first confession in his final year of middle school, after his volleyball team wins a local tournament. It’s from a girl with straight, dark hair and bright eyes—she wears shiny pink gloss on her lips and has the sleeves of her uniform rolled up to the elbows, one hand braced against her hip. Her words are blunt and matter-of-fact when she stops him behind the gym. 

“I like you,” she ends off, her gaze steady as she looks at him. 

He blinks at her, and the first word out of his mouth is, “Why?”

She tips her head back and laughs a little. “Everyone says you’re the best player on the volleyball team. And you have nice eyes, and a kind voice. Plus, you’re good at school.”

Ah, that makes sense. There’s some sort of checklist. He’s often been complimented on his looks, his studiousness. These are things he can’t really control—he was born looking the way he does, and good grades are expected of him. The one thing he made a conscientious effort to get better at was volleyball, but he doesn’t really know why. Just that playing it fulfills him in a way that nothing else seems to, sparks a challenge in him that he keeps chasing, afraid to let it fade away. 

“So?” she prompts. “Do you want to go out with me?”

He tilts his head, trying to think of the best way to turn her down. He has high school entrance exams coming up, another volleyball tournament to focus on in a few months. He doesn’t really know her, or have much interest in her. 

“I’m sorry,” he begins. She takes it very much in stride. But she’s only the first in a string of others, who leave notes in his shoe cubby or at his desk, corner him in the hallways or by the school gate. It’s easy to rationalize their behavior—what they see in him, what they’re looking for, why it never really goes beyond that. It’s all very logical, in a sense. Just like it’s logical that Akaashi turns them all down.

\--

All logic deserts him when he enrolls at Fukurodani Academy and meets a tornado in the form of a human. Over the course of a year, Akaashi is pulled further and further into Bokuto Koutarou’s orbit, and after a few months he pretty much stops resisting. 

Bokuto-san puts into words what Akaashi’s been feeling about volleyball since middle school—the rush of adrenaline and the thrill of victory, the hard work that leaves him with callouses and bruises but makes him accomplished and complete. 

After particularly difficult practices, the team lies out on their backs across the gym floor, sweaty and exhausted. Bokuto-san is always the first to leap to his feet, even though just watching him makes his teammates groan. 

“Come on, come on!” he calls out, extending a hand down to Akaashi. “You’re not tired yet, are you, Akaashi? Come toss to me!”

And even though he is exhausted, even though he wants nothing more than to dump his bottle of water over his head the way Konoha is, Akaashi allows himself to be pulled to his feet and back over to the volleyball net. 

Like he said—logic doesn’t have anything to do with it. 

\--

The confessions don’t stop, in high school. In fact, they become more frequent, especially after Akaashi makes the starting lineup of the volleyball team. Fukurodani has a reputation in several sports, plus academics, but the members of the volleyball team have a status that goes beyond the baseball players’ and class representatives’. But being on the team gives Akaashi a tried and true reason to refuse these numerous advances—“I’m very sorry, but with volleyball practice I just don’t have the time.”

Other players get much the same treatment—their third year captain, Sarukui, Konoha. What doesn’t make sense is that Akaashi has never seen a girl corning Bokuto-san as they head out of the gym together, or in the hallways when he wanders to the first year wing to have lunch with Akaashi. 

Even as a second year, Bokuto-san is undisputedly the best player on the team. His innate talent and preternatural drive motivate everyone else, even when they laugh off his antics or roll their eyes at his simple-mindedness. Akaashi has started paying attention to Bokuto-san’s particular moods, because they affect the team as a whole. (And that’s definitely the only reason he pays so much attention—it’s a form of risk management, for matches.)

But despite all this, other students tend to give Bokuto-san a wide berth. And Akaashi wonders.

“Bokuto? That kid’s just too hard to handle,” their captain groans, rubbing a hand down his face when Akaashi voices his thoughts aloud.

“He’s a bit much, you know,” Konoha shrugs.

“Not the whole package like you, Mr. Popular,” Komi laughs. “How many has it been, this week? Three, four?”

Akaashi purses his lips and doesn’t dignify that with a response. But it all makes a certain kind of sense—he knows what the checklist looks like. Bokuto-san doesn’t really care about his studies (avoids them, usually, unless Akaashi agrees to study with him), and his looks are more striking than conventionally handsome (plus he insists on spiking his hair like that). Aside from being exceptional at volleyball, he doesn’t fit the mold that Akaashi has found himself in since middle school.

But that’s stupid—because on any checklist of worthy traits that Akaashi can imagine, Bokuto-san fits every one. 

\--

Things change when they make it to Nationals. Fukurodani had made it last year, as well, but as a first year Bokuto-san hadn’t attracted much notice. This year, there’s buzz around him, lists of up-and-coming players that frequently feature his name. He glows under the praise, plays better than Akaashi’s ever seen before. 

They don’t win, but the team does well as long as they manage to stay in the tournament. When they return to school the following week, the atmosphere has changed considerably. Now, instead of being simply notable, the volleyball team has acclaim and celebrity. And no one garners more of this attention than Bokuto-san, who’s picture is featured in magazines, who gave a brief thirty-second quote for the local news. 

Now, checklists aside, the confessions start coming in. And they don’t stop.

\--

It’s the fourth day in a row that Bokuto-san’s been late for practice, and Akaashi has had enough. He tries to keep the scowl from his face as he ducks out of the club room to go look for their errant ace, arms crossed over his chest.

It doesn’t take long to find him—right outside the gym doors, surrounded by three different girls. Akaashi expects Bokuto-san to be glowing under the attention. He loves praise, after all, never looks happier than after Akaashi offers him a sincere compliment on a spike or a block.

But Bokuto-san doesn’t look that happy, now. His eyes flit between the girls nervously, and when one of them speaks he laughs in response—a reedy sound, nothing like his usual, too-loud guffaw. 

“I think you’re really amazing, Bokuto-senpai,” one of the girls is saying now. He blushes, caught between being pleased at the compliment and uncomfortable with the situation as a whole. 

Something inside of Akaashi turns brittle and snaps. He clears his throat.

Bokuto-san looks up immediately, his face lighting up in a smile. “Akaashi! What’re you—”

“I’m sorry,” Akaashi says very firmly, edging his way between the other students to grip Bokuto-san by the elbow, “But even though Nationals are over, we’re very busy. Bokuto-san needs to get to practice.”

The girls mutter their apologies and begin to disperse as Akaashi tugs Bokuto-san along, back to the club room. It’s empty once they get there, the rest of their teammates likely already on the court. That’s just fantastic—Akaashi and Bokuto-san will have extra laps to run for being so late.

“Don’t be mad, Akaashi,” Bokuto-san is pleading as he peels off his blazer and tugs loose his tie. “I just don’t know what to do, they keep coming up to me all the time now, and I’m not like you! You know exactly what to say to them! You know I’d never be late to practice on purpose!”

His voice muffles as he peels off his shirt and throws it into his locker, pulling his practice jersey over his head. But he’s still talking, words fuzzy and indistinct.

Akaashi stands to one side, already dressed and wondering why he can’t stop clenching and unclenching his hands. Bokuto-san hasn’t responded positively to any of the confessions he’s gotten, but it’s impossible to find him alone, now. Even when he comes to eat lunch with Akaashi, Akaashi’s classmates will surround his desk and sing Bokuto-san’s praises.

It shouldn’t make him unhappy. Bokuto-san loves attention, and it’s unfair of Akaashi to want it to stop. 

“Akaashi?” Bokuto-san says, suddenly standing in front of him with wide eyes and despondent expression. “Say something, please?”

He moves on instinct. One moment there’s a foot of space between them, and the next Akaashi is stepping forward to crowd Bokuto-san back against the lockers, hands fisted in his practice jersey. Bokuto-san looks down at him and blinks, his lips slightly parted.

Akaashi leans up and presses his lips against Bokuto-san’s, closing his eyes and stepping forward so that he can’t think too hard about what he’s doing. He pushes Bokuto-san roughly against the lockers and keeps kissing him, pressing their mouths together in a rapid staccato rhythm, not giving either of them a chance to pause for breath. They don’t need to breathe, because that would mean thinking, and thinking means—

Oh, god, he’s _kissing Bokuto-san_. 

Akaashi pushes himself away from Bokuto-san and feels his entire face heating up, a thousand excuses coming to mind as he lifts his hands in front of him like some kind of shield.

“I—”

“Akaashi!” Bokuto-san’s voice is loud and astounded, but _happy_. And Akaashi knows this for a fact, because he’s made a study of Bokuto-san’s moods, and his expressions, and every tone of his voice—

So maybe he should have realized how he felt a bit sooner. 

“Akaashi,” Bokuto-san says again, voice softer but no less joyful. He’s stepping forward from the lockers, looking down at Akaashi as his lips curve into a gentle smile. “I thought you’d be good at giving confessions, since you’ve heard so many! But there weren’t any words to that one, at all!”

Akaashi isn’t sure his complexion will ever recover from how much he’s blushing at this moment. He eventually manages to shoot Bokuto-san a glare. “That wasn’t—”

“It’s okay,” Bokuto-san insists, cupping Akaashi’s cheeks in his hands. “I really, really, really like you too, Akaashi.”

And then he kisses him, again. 

Akaashi amends the checklist in his head from “someone like Bokuto-san” to “someone who can kiss like Bokuto-san” and then again, finally, to just “Bokuto-san.”


	5. iwaoi | angry kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> post seijoh's loss to shiratorizawa at interhigh

He finds Oikawa exactly in the place he expects—practicing serves in the gym, the nearly empty ball trolley beside him a sign of how long he’s been at it. He doesn’t notice Iwaizumi sliding open the gym doors, or maybe he doesn’t care. Oikawa runs up to build speed, tossing the ball high as he jumps to strike it in midair. The movement snaps his entire body forward and then back, his feet hitting the gym floor with a sound that’s drowned out by the noise the ball makes on impact. 

Iwaizumi’s eyes widen as the ball lands a few feet away from him. He gapes at the floor for a moment, can’t really believe that there isn’t a crater left there. He’s watched Oikawa work on that serve for years, but it’s never had that much sheer force behind it. Brute strength isn’t Oikawa’s forte; he’s much better suited to tactics and manipulation. But Iwaizumi shouldn’t have let himself forget that Oikawa is _strong_.

It’s a little bit frightening. And, beyond that, awe-inspiring. 

He musters his courage and tries to calm his rapidly beating heart as he steps out onto the gym floor, arms crossed over his chest. Oikawa’s turned away from him, reaching back into the ball trolley to try again. Iwaizumi’s teeth grind together painfully for a moment before he yells out across the gym.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” 

Oikawa doesn’t respond. Instead, he turns back around to position himself at the service line, turning the ball over and over again in his hands.

“Hey—!” Iwaizumi calls out again, but Oikawa ignores him. He repeats the same motions: toss, run up, jump, strike. The ball zooms over Iwaizumi’s head and over the net, landing in-bounds on the opposite side. 

Oikawa bites down on his lower lip, and Iwaizumi can see the gears turning in his head. Whatever he’s considering, he’s apparently left unsatisfied, because he huffs out a breath before turning back to the trolley to retrieve another ball. 

Iwaizumi bites down on his tongue when he grinds his teeth, this time, and he can taste the faint tang of iron in his mouth as he crosses the gym floor in quick strides. Oikawa’s already back at the service line, long fingers fidgeting with the ball as he gazes out over the court. But Oikawa’s gaze doesn’t hold the same razor sharp focus that Iwaizumi is so used to seeing during matches. Instead, Oikawa’s eyes are glazed over, distant and unseeing. 

Maybe he’s not deliberately ignoring Iwaizumi. Maybe he honestly just doesn’t register his presence.

Shaking away the uncomfortable thought, Iwaizumi steps forward and catches Oikawa by the wrist right after he’s tossed the ball into the air. He lets out a faint sound of protest and tries to pull away, but Iwaizumi holds firm as the ball falls uselessly to the ground a few feet away from them. Oikawa turns his head to watch it roll away, his expression lost. 

“What,” Iwaizumi starts again, struggling to keep his voice low and even, “are you doing?”

This time, Oikawa turns to look at him, his eyes slowly refocusing on Iwaizumi’s face. “Iwa-chan,” he murmurs, before something seems to snap into place. His face blooms into a perfect, fake smile. “What does it look like? I’m practicing.”

“It’s eight o’clock,” Iwaizumi grits out. “And we played two matches today. Practicing is the last thing you need to be doing.” He’s still gripping Oikawa around the wrist, trapping him, anchoring him. 

“I just need to try some things out while they’re still fresh,” Oikawa says airily, as if it’s no big deal at all. “I know what didn’t work, today, and now’s the best time to—”

“Best time to _what_?” Iwaizumi interrupts, using his grip on Oikawa to shake him slightly. “Work yourself into the ground?”

Oikawa shifts guiltily from foot to foot, his kneepad rubbing up against his brace, the tangible reminder of how likely Iwaizumi’s accusation is. “No,” Oikawa insists. “I’m just going to make sure I don’t make the same mistakes next time.”

Iwaizumi’s face heats up, anger thrumming in his veins. “Mistakes?” he echoes with venom. “What mistakes?”

Oikawa looks scared for half a second before he lifts his chin, voice lofty. “I watched the tape. There were three serves that Shiratorizawa received, that if they’d been a better, if they’d been service aces, we might’ve taken the second set. No, we _would_ have taken it.” 

It’s such a stupid statement that Iwaizumi is struck dumb for a moment. He rolls his eyes skyward, muttering to the universe to grant him patience.

“That guess monster of theirs blocked more than three of my spikes. If I’d gotten past him, we might have won the whole match.” 

A shadow passes over Oikawa’s face. He purses his lips and shakes his head vigorously. “No, that’s not the same thing.”

“Why not? A point is a point.” 

“ _Because_ , a spike isn’t made by just one person! There’s a dozen places it can go wrong, it’s not all on you.” He’s whining, now, but there’s something more desperate in Oikawa’s tone than his usual coy griping. 

“A point is a point,” Iwaizumi repeats. “Who cares if one person makes it, or three?”

“ _Because_ ,” Oikawa says again, trying to tug his arm out of Iwaizumi’s grip. “Because,” he repeats, breathless, like he’s lost the thread of his own thoughts.

“Because why?” Iwaizumi doesn’t let go, tightens his hold on Oikawa. “If you can give me one good reason why you had to make those three points, why they had to be aces, I’ll turn around and leave. I’ll let you keep practicing as long as you want.” 

Oikawa’s looking down at him, but he looks so small. His lips curl into a pout, the color high in his cheeks. When he speaks, he sounds like he’s breaking. “Because, that’s the one thing I can control! The point I can make entirely by myself! Our team is the strongest it’s ever been, and it still wasn’t good enough to beat him! So I have to be better, I have to get those last points. You all deserve that, from me.” 

Iwaizumi doesn’t know how many times he can tell Oikawa the same thing. He knows the message has sunk in, over the years—no one believes in the strength of his team more than Oikawa. He values each and every one of them, has helped every member of the team bloom into something unique and powerful. But he’s still shouldering burdens that he shouldn’t be. And Iwaizumi doesn’t know if words are enough to get through to him, anymore. 

He yanks Oikawa forward by his wrist, releases his grip only to grab onto Oikawa’s forearms and hold him still. Their height difference, slight as it is, affects the angle more than Iwaizumi would like. But it still feels easy, natural, to lean up just so and kiss Oikawa on the lips.

This isn’t how he imagined it. He can’t remember the first time he thought about kissing Oikawa, but the fantasy is fuzzy and tinged in pink. There’s supposed to be music, something soft and instrumental. Sunshine, preferably, and a laugh beforehand that melts away as he presses his lips against Oikawa’s. He’d probably taste like citrus, or stardust. 

Now, he tastes like sweat. Iwaizumi doesn’t gently press into the kiss—instead, he’s all force and teeth, his grip on Oikawa’s arms too harsh. He catches Oikawa’s bottom lip between his teeth, biting down instinctively as Oikawa’s mouth opens in a gasp. Iwaizumi tastes blood and almost pulls away, before remembering that he’d bit his own tongue, earlier. He can’t stop the blood from pounding in his veins, the anger burning through him. The kiss is all of that, tang of iron and cut of teeth.

He pulls away first, gasping for breath and still holding on Oikawa by the arms. Oikawa’s lips are wet and red, his eyes wide and his hands lying dormant at his sides. He blinks at Iwaizumi once, then twice.

“I’m sorry,” he says, half a question.

“For what?” Iwaizumi asks, even though he’s the one who should be sorry. It shouldn’t have been like that, he shouldn’t have done that.

“For whatever I said that made you that angry,” Oikawa says. And, of course, Oikawa’s always been too good at reading him. It doesn’t matter than the anger was in a kiss, instead of written across his face or held in the tension of his back.

“You don’t get to decide what we _deserve_ from you,” Iwaizumi says hoarsely. “Anyone who wants anything more will ask for it, idiot. You’re not fighting alone.”

“Was that you asking?” Oikawa says, voice perfectly idle. 

“What?”

Oikawa lifts a hand, fingers fluttering and gesturing at his lips, then between them. “You kissed me. Were you asking for something more?”

Not the way he wanted to, Iwaizumi thinks darkly, guiltily. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s not an answer to my question, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa laughs, still sounding breathless.

But oh, that laughter is what Iwaizumi has been waiting for. He acts on instinct, pulling Oikawa close to kiss his laughing mouth, to lick across his lips in apology as Oikawa sighs and melts against him. 

“Yes,” he says, when he pulls away again. 

“Mm?”

“I’m asking,” Iwaizumi says, looking down at his feet instead of into Oikawa’s too perceptive stare. 

“Oh,” Oikawa breathes out. For one terrible moment, there’s silence. And then Oikawa is squirming out of Iwaizumi’s hold and wrapping his arms around his shoulders, pulling him close against Oikawa’s chest. “Okay,” he breathes, into Iwaizumi’s ear. 

Iwaizumi huffs out a laugh of his own, relief pouring over him like rain dousing a fire. 

“You can ask me for anything,” Oikawa hums, squeezing Iwaizumi tighter.

Iwaizumi considers this, then pushes Oikawa away gently. 

Oikawa looks down at him, one brow lifting in question.

“Teach me your serve,” Iwaizumi says. 

Oikawa blinks at him, tilts his head.

“I’m never going to let you fight alone,” Iwaizumi says. “Teach me your serve.”

Oikawa seems to consider this for a moment, then nods his head vigorously before he brings his face close for another kiss.


	6. bokuaka | kiss on the nose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i realize that texting in japanese would not contain considerations of capitalization. just go with it.

_Bokuto (11:21): I changed my mind, I definitely can’t do this._

_Kuroo (11:25): oh? and here i thought there was nothing you couldn’t do, mr. top-five-in-the-country._

_Bokuto (11:27): I am having a crisis I don’t need you making fun of me I thought you said you were going to help !!_

_Kuroo (11:30): punctuation, bo. use it._

_Bokuto (11:31): Says Mr. Too Cool for Capital Letters!!_

_Kuroo (11:33): i am charmingly nonchalant. and you love it._

_Bokuto (11:35): I would love you more if you would shut up and help me._

_Kuroo (11:37): do you want me to shut up, or give you advice? can’t be both._

_Bokuto (11:39): KUROO._

_Kuroo (11:43): alright, alright. calm down. what’s the crisis?_

_Bokuto (11:45): We’re going out after practice and yesterday I held his hand and he didn’t seem to mind but what if I try to do more and he does mind?? But also he seems to be getting a little impatient, he keeps looking at me like he’s expecting something but what if I do the wrong thing and he doesn’t want to go out with me anymore? What do I do??_

_Kuroo (11:48): step one: breathe._   
_Kuroo (11:49): step two: chill._

_Bokuto (11:51): None of that is helpful!_

_Kuroo (11:53): all my advice is helpful, how dare you. also, you can’t kiss akaashi if you’re not breathing._

_Bokuto (11:55): Who said anything about kissing!_

_Kuroo (11:58): i’m sorry, is there another step on the boyfriend hierarchy of pda that i’m missing?_

_Bokuto (12:03): No._   
_Bokuto (12:04): I really, really want to kiss him._

_Kuroo (12:07): so? kiss him, then._   
_Kuroo (12:08): but maybe ask him first._

_Bokuto (12:09): What if he doesn’t want to kiss me!_

_Kuroo (12:11): then he’ll tell you that?_   
_Kuroo (12:12): he already agreed to be your boyfriend, so if he doesn’t want to kiss you it’s not because he doesn’t like you. maybe he just doesn’t like kissing, or isn’t ready, or whatever. either way, not a bad reflection on you._

_Bokuto (12:15): You’re sure?_

_Kuroo (12:17): 100%._   
_Kuroo (12:18): i’m also tired and have morning practice. so believe in yourself and respect his boundaries, and you’ll be just fine._

_Bokuto (12:19): Okay, thanks. Goodnight._   
_Bokuto (12:39): You’re really, really sure?_

_Kuroo (12:41): go to sleep, bokuto._

_Bokuto (12:43): Okay, okay._

\--

The ice cream shop is two blocks away from Fukurodani Academy. This isn’t the first time that Bokuto and Akaashi have been there together—Bokuto is working his way through every flavor on the menu, while Akaashi gets three stacked scoops of strawberry every time. Usually, however, they aren’t alone. The rest of the team is fond of heckling Bokuto into treating them, and when they do he’ll whine the entire way to the shop until the rest of them cave and pay for his ice cream, instead. 

They’ve been dating for two weeks. Bokuto held Akaashi’s hand as he walked him to the train station two days ago, determined not to look down at their intertwined fingers as he tugged Akaashi along, speaking at an increasingly loud volume and fast pace. Akaashi had smiled through it, but just before they’d parted he’d given Bokuto’s hand a firm squeeze—their hands were warm from the sun, sweaty and slightly uncomfortable. 

Now, they sit side by side in a booth, facing away from the door, while Akaashi nibbles at his strawberry ice cream and Bokuto digs into his seasonal sakura flavor. It’s moments like these that he never knew he could cherish, before—there’s silence between them, but it isn’t stale and awkward. He likes knowing Akaashi is right beside him, feeling their knees brush occasionally under the table when he shifts. He likes that he can glance right over at Akaashi and see his face, the cute focus he adopts when eating, the shadows of his thick lashes against his skin when he blinks. 

“Is something wrong?” he asks, glancing up at Bokuto.

Bokuto scrunches his face, clenches his teeth as his lips pull into a smile. “No! I don’t think so?”

Akaashi shakes his head, smiling fondly. “You were staring.”

“I like looking at you,” Bokuto says, sincerely. And then, because it’s true, he says, “You’ve got ice cream on your cheek.”

He’s never seen Akaashi’s face change color so fast, not even last year at Nationals when they played the hardest game of their lives and had all been red and panting by the end of it. This is a different kind of flush, a rosy pink that rises high in Akaashi’s cheeks and spreads out over his nose. It’s a little funny, since the ice cream was already doing a good job of staining his face pink. 

“I’ll—” Akaashi says, balancing his cone in one hand as he glances around the table for napkins.

“I got it,” Bokuto interrupts, reaching out to rub his thumb over Akaashi’s cheek, catching the fleck of ice cream that had landed there. Akaashi’s skin is warm against his hand, smooth and soft. 

“Thank you,” Akaashi says pointedly. 

It’s only then that Bokuto pulls his hand away, smiling sheepishly. “Hey, Akaashi?”

“Mm?” Akaashi’s already bitten back into his ice cream, caught with his mouth full.

“You like being with me, right?” 

Akaashi’s eyes blink closed for a moment, like he’s gathering his patience. He swallows down his bite of ice cream and then lifts his head. “Would we be sitting here if I didn’t like being with you, Bokuto-san?”

Bokuto laughs, and to his credit it doesn’t sound anywhere as nervous as he feels. “Did you like it when we held hands?”

The pink on his cheeks takes on a deeper tinge. “I—yes.”

“Me, too,” Bokuto tells him eagerly. “I mean, I really like looking at you, but touching you is something totally different. Something I didn’t even get to think about, before.”

“Oh,” Akaashi says, considering. 

“Oh, what?”

Akaashi shrugs, before licking around the rim of his cone to keep his ice cream from melting over his fingers. “I’ve thought about it,” he says nonchalantly. 

Now Bokuto can feel his own face heating up. As much as he loves being the center of attention, he’s still somewhat incredulous about the fact that there’s anyone who would spend their time thinking about him when he isn’t around. A warmth spreads through his chest. 

“And?” he forces himself to say. “What did you think about?”

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says with stressed patience, in a tone that would be a whine, coming from anyone else. “Is this really where you want to—”

“Because I think about kissing you all the time,” Bokuto lets out in a rush, before his courage fails him. He looks at Akaashi expectantly, biting down on his tongue. 

Akaashi huffs, sitting back against the booth. “Well?” he says, finally. “What are you waiting for, then?”

It takes the words a moment to register. But as soon as Bokuto has processed them, he leans forward, looking searchingly at Akaashi to see if he’ll pull away. When he doesn’t, Bokuto leans closer, lips hovering above Akaashi’s for the barest moment.

Don’t mess this up, he thinks to himself. Definitely, definitely don’t mess this up. 

He tilts his head down at the same moment that Akaashi lifts his chin, searching for Bokuto’s lips. The angle is all wrong, and Bokuto ends up kissing the tip of Akaashi’s nose, nowhere near his lips. 

It doesn’t feel bad, really. Not what he’d intended, but still.

Akaashi pulls back, one hand lifted over his mouth as his cheeks burn. “That was… not what I was expecting.”

“I liked it,” Bokuto says without thinking, because he’s been spending two weeks thinking about Akaashi’s lips, when there’s so many other parts of his face that Bokuto could be kissing.

Akaashi chuckles softly, shaking his head. He leans up and kisses Bokuto’s nose, soft and affectionate.

“Me, too,” he says. 

\--

_Bokuto (7:31): Is there a list of places to kiss someone on the boyfriend hierarchy of pda?_

_Kuroo (7:33): you know that was a joke, right?_   
_Kuroo (7:35): also i don’t want to know._   
_Kuroo (7:36): but are congratulations in order?_


	7. iwaoi | kiss on the forehead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sometimes you just need soft domestic iwaois.

Perfectionism is a fault line that runs through Oikawa’s entire being, branching off into pettiness and jealousy and insecurity. The quakes don’t come as often as one might think, but the threat is always lurking. One wrong shift will send plates colliding, an earthquake ripping through to the surface. 

Most days, however, the effects are quieter. He comes home to the apartment after a run, pale skin flushed red and bangs plastered to his forehead with sweat. Still breathing heavily, he remembers to drop a carton of orange juice on Iwaizumi’s desk before he reaches back into the paper bag from the corner market and uncaps a chilled bottle of water. He stands over Iwaizumi’s shoulder as he drinks, so close that Iwaizumi can smell the saltiness of his sweat, can hear every gulp of water down his throat. 

“Gross.” Iwaizumi pointedly turns the page of his chemistry notes. 

Oikawa breathes out a laugh, a sound so soft that Iwaizumi might have missed it under the rustle of his papers, if he wasn’t specifically listening for the sound. A moment later, Oikawa drops the emptied water bottle on Iwaizumi’s desk and rubs one damp hand over the top of Iwaizumi’s head, laughter gurgling up more easily when Iwaizumi jabs him in the side. 

“Go shower,” Iwaizumi grumbles at him, even though he misses the sound of Oikawa’s laughter when he skips away to the bathroom. Iwaizumi tries to go back to looking over his notes, but instead ends up listening to the rush of water through the pipes. He leans back in his chair, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

Their apartment is small, its sole virtual its affordability. They’ve separated the main room into three sections, themselves—kitchen and dining, couch and television, two desks facing opposite walls. When he leans back in his desk chair, he’s usually only a few inches away from Oikawa in his. But Oikawa had been up ludicrously early, this morning, his schoolwork already arranged in neat, completed piles on his desk by the time Iwaizumi had woken up. 

Iwaizumi has drunken all of his orange juice and made a valiant effort to finish up one chapter of chemistry when Oikawa reappears, skin pink from heat and scrubbing. He’s humming to himself, off-key and too-loud, as he reaches for his gym bag and starts riffling through it. He’s wearing comfy sweatpants that taper and bunch at his ankles, a too-large tank top that hangs loose and reveals the sides of his torso through the arm holes. 

“What’s that?” Iwaizumi asks, when Oikawa pulls a CD out of the side of his bag.

“The team we’re playing next week,” Oikawa says idly. “They’re ranked below us, but they have a middle blocker who might be trouble…” He rambles on as he boots up his computer, pulling the disc from its paper sleeve before Iwaizumi swivels in his chair to face him.

“Don’t watch it on your computer,” he says, arms crossed over his chest, chemistry thoroughly abandoned.

“I have to watch it somewhere,” Oikawa starts, and Iwaizumi patiently resists rolling his eyes. 

He doesn’t point out that Oikawa doesn’t have to watch that match, because recon and strategy are technically the jobs of their coaches and captain. Instead, he huffs. “Your eyesight’s already shit, and you’re going to kill your back hunching forward to see. Go watch on the TV.” 

“I’m nearsighted,” Oikawa protests, face scrunching into a pout.

“Yeah, because you’re always hunching over computer screens,” Iwaizumi drawls. He jabs a thumb at the couch. “The TV’s bigger. Go sit on the couch and watch it there.” 

“I can’t listen to the TV with headphones, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa sing-songs, drawing out the honorific. 

In some distant way, Iwaizumi is touched. Oikawa isn’t a bad roommate, exactly, but outward displays of consideration from him are rare. Iwaizumi sighs and pushes his chemistry book across his desk. “I’m mostly done here,” he lies. “Let’s just watch together.”

He doesn’t miss the way something sparks in Oikawa’s eyes, the speed with which he chirps, “Okay!” and skips the few steps over to their living space. He’s already to hit play by the time Iwaizumi shuffles over to the couch and sits down. Oikawa takes his seat on the other end, knees drawn up to his chest as the game begins, leaning forward to lean his chin against his arms. Iwaizumi sits back and doesn’t try to absorb every detail—he focuses on the main strokes of each point, a player or two who catch his eye. Oikawa, he knows, is watching everything he can. 

Since they’ve gotten to college, he’s heard their new teammates muttering about how Oikawa doesn’t sleep. He’s always the first one in the locker room, bubbly and ostensibly charming. He never seems to be in a rush, but he’s always moving—from practice to class, from class to social obligations, and so on. And it’s masterful, how he never seems to let anything drop. His grades are as good as they’d been in high school, his popularity only increasing, his dedication to volleyball bleeding into obsession. Iwaizumi doesn’t blame the others for their incredulous comments—if he didn’t live with him, he might wonder when Oikawa sleeps, too.

But as the match drags into a long second set, Iwaizumi sees the slow dip of Oikawa’s eyelids. He reaches out wordlessly to drape an arm over Oikawa’s shoulders, pulling him down to rest against Iwaizumi. Oikawa doesn’t try to pull away, just lets off a soft note of protest right before he gives in and lets his head fall against Iwaizumi’s lap. His hair’s still damp, but Iwaizumi pays that no attention as he slowly runs his fingers through it. Oikawa goes limp, his weight comfortably heavy as he nuzzles against Iwaizumi’s thigh. 

Perfectionism pushes Oikawa to frenzy, more often than not. It fuels in him a nervous, inextinguishable energy that burns through him, forcing him to keep moving. Unanchored, he’d probably keep running forever. 

“Maybe don’t wake up at five am the next time we have a day off,” Iwaizumi says lightly.

“Shh, Iwa-chan.” Even his voice is drowsy and rough. “I’m trying to watch the match.”

“No, you’re not,” Iwaizumi responds. His fingers pause at the base of Oikawa’s neck, lightly massaging the spot. 

Oikawa opens his mouth to retort, but when Iwaizumi’s fingers drift to the tension of his shoulders he lets out a gurgling sigh, instead. 

“You were saying?” Iwaizumi asks, reaching for the remote to pause the video.

“Mm-hmm.” Oikawa’s lost all sense of coherency, turning his head to press his face into Iwaizumi’s stomach. It tickles, but he doesn’t hate it. 

It takes a few more minutes for Oikawa to stop squirming, but eventually his breathing evens out and he falls asleep, one arm curled around Iwaizumi protectively.

“Idiot,” Iwaizumi murmurs fondly. He leans down, brushing Oikawa’s bangs out of the way so he can plant a kiss on his brow unimpeded. His skin is warm, smells of his minty bodywash. 

Oikawa mumbles in response, incoherent in his sleep. But his lips twitch into a smile, and he nuzzles closer into Iwaizumi’s chest.


	8. iwaoi | a scared kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now including responses to [this meme](http://newamsterdame.tumblr.com/post/144673755255/lustanddai-sweet-affectionate-moments-meme). feel free to request.

Oikawa perches precariously on the roof—back flat against the gravelly concrete, legs dangling over the side of the building, eyes wide and fixated on the sky. Iwaizumi sits cross-legged beside him, elbow against his knee and chin in his hand. He isn’t looking at the sky; he’s looking at Oikawa. 

“Where’d Mattsun and Makki go?” Oikawa asks, as though he never noticed when they’d gotten up to go inside ten minutes ago.

“To clear out the apartment before Matsukawa’s parents get home.” Iwaizumi shrugs. 

“Mm.” Oikawa hums in the way that means he’s either not listening or thinking of multiple things at once. Comfortable quiet falls between them for a moment, the wind whistling softly into the night air. 

“That can’t be comfortable,” Iwaizumi mutters, when Oikawa starts swinging his legs. The uneven surface of the roof is rough against Iwaizumi’s legs through his jeans, and Oikawa has his arms splayed like he’s about to make a snow angel. 

“It’s not _un_ comfortable,” Oikawa returns blithely. 

Iwaizumi huffs, rolls his eyes. He doesn’t have an immediate response, and the silence descends over them again for a few moments. Iwaizumi tilts his head up and tries to count the stars, tries to glean from them whatever Oikawa is searching so hard for. He gets to twenty-five and loses count, unsure of which stars he’s already noted. 

“Hey,” he says, instead of starting over, “What’re you thinking about?”

Oikawa finally turns his head, looking up at Iwaizumi’s face instead of the sky. His eyes are glassy in the dark of the night, reflecting the full moon. “Don’t know,” he says after a moment. “I think I’m happy.” He giggles, biting down on his lower lip when his mouth tries to stretch into a smile.

Oikawa has an entire arsenal of laughs—flirtatious and menacing and calculated and uninhibited. But when he laughs, now, it sounds weightless, free. Like graduating has lifted a burden from his shoulders, at least temporarily.

“I sort of feel drunk,” he says quietly, voice lilting rhythmically. “Like, I’m just _feeling_ instead of thinking. You ever feel like that, Iwa-chan?” 

“I don’t think that’s what being drunk feels like,” Iwaizumi says flatly. 

Oikawa pouts. “Well, how would you know? It’s not like you’re ever thinking, in the first place.”

It’s easy to reach over and pinch Oikawa hard in the arm, so that he yelps and twists away. Iwaizumi lets him go, watches the long lines of Oikawa’s body as he gets to his feet and stretches his arms over his head. 

“You’re so rude,” Oikawa tells him, back turned to Iwaizumi. “Now I’m not going to tell you what I was thinking about.” 

“You said you were _feeling_ ,” Iwaizumi reminds him.

“Fine. Then I’m not going to tell you what I was feeling about.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Do you want to know, or not?” 

“You just said you weren’t going to tell me!” 

Oikawa tilts his head back and laughs, rich and velvety into the night air. It’s an entirely different sound from his bubbly giggling. 

“You’re really ruining the moment, you know?” Oikawa steps up onto the ledge where his legs had been resting moments before, arms extended to either side of him like he’s walking a tightrope.

“Oi,” Iwaizumi says. “Be careful.” 

Oikawa tuts. “Shush, Iwa-chan. I want to tell you about my feelings.”

Iwaizumi is already crouching forward, watching for any sign of Oikawa slipping. “I know all about your feelings,” he says. “You never shut up about them.”

“Not these particular feelings,” Oikawa insists.

“Fine. Tell me about your dumb feelings.”

Oikawa sticks out his tongue. “Rude.” But he continues, taking two steps forward along the ledge, one step back. “What’re you going to do with your jersey, now?”

“Huh?” He hadn’t expected the question. “I don’t know, put it away in a box somewhere, or something. We’re getting new ones in a few weeks, anyway.”

Oikawa hums again. They’d been lucky, being scouted by the same university, but it’s going to be weird, seeing Oikawa play without the number one on his back.

“I was thinking,” Oikawa says. “Maybe you could give me your jersey.”

Both of Iwaizumi’s brows lift. “What.”

“And I could give you mine,” Oikawa continues, as though Iwaizumi hasn’t spoken. “You know, that’s why I liked wearing number one.”

“You need to back up about ten steps and explain what the hell you’re talking about, Oikawa.”

Oikawa rises up on his toes, still taking careful steps along the ledge. “The number one. I wore it for you.”

Iwaizumi blinks. “You wore it because you were the captain, and because you were the first person in our year to turn in your club registration form. Remember when you elbowed Hanamaki out of the way to get to our old captain first?” 

“Makki put his face in a bad spot,” Oikawa insists. 

“That doesn’t explain what you’re talking about.”

Oikawa sighs, tilting his face back up towards the sky. The moonlight casts his skin in a milky glow, the shadows of his curling hair stark against his forehead. “Try and keep up, Iwa-chan.” 

“I’m not dumb, you just don’t make sense.”

“I learned to write your name before my own.” Oikawa’s still talking, and Iwaizumi sighs, done trying to make sense of his leaps of logic. 

“Yeah, well. My name’s easier,” Iwaizumi mumbles.

“It always comes first.” Oikawa’s lips curve into a smile. “ _Hajime_.” 

Hearing Oikawa call him by his given name is a novel experience, and one that Iwaizumi enjoys more than he’ll let on. “Did you have a point, _Tooru_?”

“The number one reminds me of you,” Oikawa says. “And I played all those matches wearing that number, because I knew I had your strength behind me, or in front of me, or beside me. And it means a lot to me, so I’m going to give you the damn jersey, and you’re going to give me yours in return. Understood?” 

Iwaizumi chokes on a laugh. “You couldn’t have just said that, in the first place?” His cheeks feel hot. As expressive as Oikawa is, he doesn’t speak so frankly about his feelings very often. Maybe they both are a little drunk—off the emotions of the day, and their shared anticipation of the future, and the quiet intimacy of just living in this moment together.

“Is that a yes?” Oikawa demands.

“We’re moving into the same apartment,” Iwaizumi says dismissively. “They’re going to end up in the same place, anyway.”

“You’re not romantic at all,” Oikawa complains, pivoting on one foot. 

“What’s romantic about a sweaty old jersey?” Iwaizumi returns.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa whines, dragging out the vowels. He moves to stamp his foot, but misjudges the width of the ledge. It takes only a half-second, but Oikawa’s eyes go wide the second he realizes he’s not going to land on solid ground.

“Tooru!” Iwaizumi lunges forward before Oikawa can fall, hand fisted into the cotton of Oikawa’s shirt. He yanks Oikawa forward, distantly hearing the scrunch of uneven concrete and plaster beneath them as Oikawa’s weight falls on top of him. 

Iwaizumi lands on his back, the wind entirely knocked out of him. “Ow,” he mutters, when his mind has caught up with the moment. 

Oikawa is still on top of him, hands pressed against Iwaizumi’s chest. “Your heart is beating so fast,” he says in a quiet, rushed voice.

“Because you’re definitely out to kill me,” Iwaizumi tells him, but he reaches out and wraps his arms around Oikawa’s shoulders. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah,” Oikawa agrees. He’s shaking. 

Iwaizumi tuts, hands drifting from Oikawa’s shoulders down to his wrists, lifting his hands. He kisses one of Oikawa’s palms, then the other. “Such an idiot,” he repeats.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa protests. 

Iwaizumi kisses the tips of his fingers, then leans forward to kiss Oikawa’s chin, then his nose. “Literally the stupidest person I have ever met.”

“Hey—!” Oikawa’s protest is cut off when Iwaizumi kisses him soundly on the lips.

Oikawa leans into the kiss, lips parting as his teeth graze Iwaizumi’s tongue. As they kiss, Iwaizumi has the distant thought that he can hear the stars humming above them.

Iwaizumi pulls away, cupping Oikawa’s face in his hands. “Honestly, you were going to _die_ and leave me with your old, gross jersey to remember you by.”

“It’s a romantic gesture—!” Oikawa practically screeches.

Now it’s Iwaizumi’s turn to laugh as he falls back against the rooftop of Matsukawa’s apartment building, moon bright above him and Oikawa present in every sense he has—warm where their bodies touch, luminescent as Iwaizumi looks up at him, loud as he bemoans Iwaizumi’s unromantic heart. When Iwaizumi runs his tongue over his lips, he tastes the cake Oikawa had eaten earlier, the scent reminiscent of strawberries. 

He doesn’t fear the future, or much of anything. Just the thought of losing this.


	9. kuroken | getting caught in the act

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is sexual content in this chapter.  
> all characters are 20+.
> 
> also includes yaku/lev.

“Kenma.” Kuroo groans softly before pressing his lips against Kenma’s collarbone, lips slick and breath too warm. “ _Kenma_.” 

“Shh.” Kenma’s hands curl around the back of Kuroo’s neck, pulling him down and closer. His breathing hiccups as Kuroo moves against him, pleasure spiking in the pit of his stomach. “You have to—you have to be quiet, Kuro.”

Kuroo shakes his head, the softness of his hair brushing against Kenma’s chin as he buries his face against Kenma’s neck. It’s hard to be aware of anything other than Kuroo, in this moment—the way he’s braced over Kenma, his strong arms bracketing him, each movement of his hips fanning flames that have been slowly building for the better part of an hour. His tanned skin is slick with sweat as he moves, palms flat against the mattress on either side of Kenma. Static is running over every inch of Kenma’s skin, and he’s wound so tight he feels he might snap in half. But despite that it’s easy to feel lulled and secure, with Kuroo everywhere around him.

Kuroo snaps his hips and they both moan, Kenma’s voice escaping as a hiss between clenched teeth. 

“Quiet,” he insists, fingers scrambling against Kuroo’s skin, from his neck to the broad expanse of his shoulders.

“Can’t,” Kuroo mutters, and when he presses a kiss against Kenma’s skin, Kenma can feel Kuroo’s smile. 

“You can,” Kenma insists, heels digging into the small of Kuroo’s back as he starts moving again. He loses his train of thought for long moments, content to ride along on the rhythm of Kuroo’s movements, the sharp sensations of pleasure they send through his body. “Ah—!”

Kuroo chuckles, braces his weight against one hand as he uses the other to gently brush the hair back from Kenma’s face. “Who needs to be quiet, again?”

“Still you,” Kenma hisses, dragging his nails across Kuroo’s back when Kuroo snaps his hips again. Kuroo hisses at the sensation, leaning down to claim Kenma’s mouth, his tongue pushing wet and insistent against Kenma’s lips, then the inside of his cheek. 

Kenma’s never sure if he stops thinking, in these moments, or just thinks too much—he’s blissfully aware of every physical sensation, of how much tenderness and love Kuroo treats him with, but otherwise his mind is blank. If he were in anyone else’s arms, the feeling might be uncomfortable. 

“I’m close,” he whispers around labored breaths, when Kuroo finally pulls back. 

“Come on, then,” Kuroo murmurs, kissing the hollow of Kenma’s throat, then a line up to the shell of his ear. “I want to hear you, Kenma.” 

He shakes his head, teeth digging into his lower lip as he feels himself cresting, Kuroo’s arms strong around him and his mind going fuzzy with the static of sensation—

There’s a knock at the bedroom door, and then a voice that does not belong in this moment, at all. “Kuroo-san, Kenma-san! Mori-san wants to know when you’re coming down to break— _oh_.” 

Kenma’s still coming down of his high, too mortified to move even as Kuroo shifts around him, completely blocking him from view with the bulk of his body. 

“Lev,” Kuroo says with stiff pleasantness. “We’ll be down in just a second.”

Kenma presses his face into the pillows and fights back the urge to laugh. It’s ludicrous, but he can imagine the look on Kuroo’s face—his widest smile and most terrifying eyes. 

Lev makes a gurgling noise, like he’s fighting back a laugh and a shriek all at once. “Alright,” he says after a moment, voice shaking. “By the way, Kuroo-san, you’re bleeding a bit, on your back!”

Kenma doesn’t look up until he hears the door shut again. He’s shaking all over as Kuroo pulls him close, one hand on top of his head and the other around his waist. 

“You alright?” he murmurs softly, against Kenma’s ear.

The dam breaks, and when Kenma bursts into laughter, Kuroo only looks offended for an instant before he’s laughing, too.

\--

“ _My house_ ,” Yaku says, arms crossed over his chest as he stares Kuroo and Kenma down. They’re seated at the kitchen table, able to smell the heavenly aroma of the meal Yaku’s prepared and is currently denying to them.

Kuroo drags a hand down his face. “We’ve been here for three days, you can’t say you honestly expected—”

“ _My house_.” Yaku repeats himself, sharp words cutting off Kuroo’s less-than-repentant explanation. Expression still livid, he turns to Kenma. “I expect this kind of depravity from Kuroo. Not you.”

“Hey—!” Kuroo sputters, while Kenma just shrugs. Kenma allows the misconception that Kuroo is the corrupting influence in their relationship because it’s convenient, but it is just that—a misconception. 

“You’re going to traumatize Lev,” Yaku mutters, shaking his head as he heads back to the stove. “ _Honestly_.” 

Kuroo snorts. “Oh, yeah, like you two have never—”

Yaku turns on him, brandishing his spatula. “Guests who want to eat should learn when to shut up.”

Kuroo holds up both hands, placating. “Whatever you say, Yakkun.” 

They’re digging into their breakfasts when Lev reappears, humming softly to himself as he lumbers into the kitchen. He takes one look at the three of them gathered around the table, eating in awkward silence, and shakes his head.

“Don’t be mad, Mori-san,” he says, leaning down to plant a kiss against Yaku’s temple. “I mean, I was surprised, but it was kind of hot.” 

“Oh my god,” Kuroo groans.

Kenma bites down on the inside of his cheek and shrugs. He’s not really into the idea of having an audience, but he honestly can’t disagree.


	10. iwaoi | mokita: the truth everyone knows but nobody says

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now including responses to [this](http://newamsterdame.tumblr.com/tagged/memery) meme.

The moment that training camp is officially over, all the energy abruptly drops from Oikawa’s body. The last of the bags are piled into the back of the bus, and the doors are closed with a final click. Oikawa brushes his bangs back from his forehead and tilts his head upwards to the sky, the fading light of the day catching on the sharp angle of his cheek and the bridge of his nose for a moment before he rolls his shoulders and lets his head fall back down again. 

“Tired?” Iwaizumi asks, standing by the bus with his arms crossed over his chest.

Oikawa huffs, his demeanor a shade short of indignation. “Of course not.”

“Then hurry up. Everyone wants to go home. You’re holding us up.” 

Oikawa makes a soft noise of offense, but crosses the space between them and boards the bus behind Iwaizumi. The rest of the team has already taken their seats—Kunimi is already asleep beside Kindaichi, and Hanamaki and Matsukawa have an earbud a piece as they look down at Matsukawa’s phone. Coach Mizoguchi is sitting in the driver’s seat, with Coach Irihata behind him, already glancing through the forms on his clipboard. 

Iwaizumi and Oikawa take an empty seat towards head of the bus, Iwaizumi sliding in towards the window. Oikawa sits right beside him, laying his bag at their feet before tilting his head back against the seat. 

The start of the ride is blessedly quiet. After a week’s worth of drills and practice matches, no one has the energy for more than staring out the window or listening to music. Iwaizumi rests his chin against one hand, watching Miyagi’s greenery scroll by through the window. It’s calming, after days of running beneath the harsh sun, to be slightly removed from it. 

Oikawa is uncharacteristically silent beside him, and twenty minutes into there’s a soft pressure against Iwaizumi’s shoulder that disappears quickly. Iwaizumi tilts his head to see Oikawa shifting restlessly beside him, his head lolling one way or the other as he searches for a comfortable position. His eyes are closed, but his brows are pulled together and he’s frowning slightly in his sleep. 

Iwaizumi shakes his head lightly before reaching out and pulling Oikawa’s head down to his shoulder, letting it rest there. Oikawa intakes a sniffling breath but then calms, nudging further into the space between Iwaizumi’s neck and shoulder. Iwaizumi reaches one arm around Oikawa, his hand coming to rest on Oikawa’s opposite shoulder so that he can keep him still while he sleeps. 

Oikawa’s weight against him isn’t uncomfortable, and Iwaizumi finds himself zoning out as he continues to stare out the window, his fingers gently smoothing across the fabric of Oikawa’s sleeve. 

He’s glad Oikawa has the time to rest, short as it is. From the outside, it’s easy to imagine Iwaizumi as the team’s disciplinarian, with Oikawa handing out compliments and affectionate nicknames like candy. But anyone who’s ever attended a Seijoh training camp knows differently. Oikawa funnels all of his energy into the few days they have, meticulously planning training schedules with the coaches and taking it upon himself to make sure everyone wakes up on time and doesn’t stay up late. It’s funny, how much of a stickler he becomes, crawling into his futon right at eleven and demanding Hanamaki hit the lights so that they can all sleep.

And maybe Iwaizumi should feel guiltier about how generally unhelpful he is, in this regard. Because it was more than once that Oikawa had woken up to find him sitting in a circle with Matsukawa and Hanamaki, playing cards, or sitting beside Kindaichi’s futon while their underclassman spills all his worries to Iwaizumi, or running through the hallway away from Kunimi, who looks murderous upon being woken up at three in the morning. 

“You’re so irresponsible,” Oikawa had said with a heavy groan halfway through the week, carrying his breakfast to one of the tables in the cafeteria. “Honestly, _vice-captain_.”

“Are you mad?” Iwaizumi asked, already biting into an apple as he took a seat beside Oikawa.

“No,” Oikawa said, lips twisting into a pout. Then he sighed, and amended, “Not about you having fun. But I want to spend time with Iwa-chan, too.” 

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes and nudged his shoulder into Oikawa’s. “What do you think we’re doing right now?” 

He’d calmed a bit, after that, but still couldn’t keep himself up into the night. And it’s an interesting contrast, since Oikawa is normally a restless sleeper, waking up at two or three in the morning on school nights to look up at the stars, or kept awake by the frantic thoughts swirling through his own mind. 

Training camp is different, though. Maybe because Oikawa’s able to dedicate himself so fully to physical activity during the day, his body doesn’t have time to listen to his mind and he’s able to sleep. And it’s true that when Iwaizumi lays down beside him, Oikawa’s breathing is calm and even, and he rarely awakes unless Matsukawa can’t hold in his too-loud laughter after one of Hanamaki’s jokes. 

It’s a good kind of exhaustion, Iwaizumi decides, still running his fingers over Oikawa’s shoulder in a gentle rhythm. 

Hanamaki is twisting around in the seat in front of them, getting up on his knees so that he can rest his arms against the back of the seat. “Oh,” he says slyly, glancing between Oikawa and Iwaizumi, “that’s precious.” 

Matsukawa is following Hanamaki’s gaze, getting up to mirror his position. “Poor Captain,” he tuts. 

Iwaizumi frowns up at the two of them, bringing one finger in front of his mouth in a shushing gesture. “Shut up,” he whispers. “I don’t want him waking up.”

“Don’t worry,” Matsukawa drawls, “he won’t.” 

“He’s got his favorite pillow, doesn’t he?” Hanamaki agrees, turning to Matsukawa and nodding sagely. 

“Ha?” Iwaizumi’s brow furrows. 

Matsukawa hums his agreement. “I think that’s probably the reason he woke up while we were playing cards, too. He could tell Iwaizumi wasn’t beside him.” 

“He was asleep,” Iwaizumi mutters. “He couldn’t tell anything.” 

“Mm.” Hanamaki makes a noncommittal noise, but he still manages to sound smug. 

“Just don’t move around too much,” Matsukawa says, “Unless you want him to wake up to you petting him, like that.”

Iwaizumi freezes. Sometime during the course of their conversation, his fingers have wandering from Oikawa’s shoulder into his hair, gently combing through the thick locks without Iwaizumi’s express permission. And it’s not just the movement to keep Oikawa lulled to sleep—it’s a calming gesture for him, to feel Oikawa against him, to be able to touch him so unselfconsciously… 

Oh.

“Shut up.” Iwaizumi’s cheeks are too warm, and he forcibly moves his hand back down to Oikawa’s shoulders—a natural, defensible position. 

“We won’t say anything,” Hanamaki says, but the last word is caught in a sigh as he turns back around and slumps into his seat. 

“If no one has, yet, we won’t ruin it,” Matsukawa agrees.

“Don’t you mean fix it?” Hanamaki titters, and the rest of their conversation is lost on Iwaizumi as he stares back out the window, head spinning slightly.

Oikawa shifts restlessly beside him, and Iwaizumi tightens his grip subconsciously. Oikawa sighs softly, his breath warm against Iwaizumi’s neck. Heat crawls over his skin, and Iwaizumi is sure his neck and cheeks are now red, but he can’t bring himself to move away from Oikawa.

Just for a little while longer, it’ll be okay for them to stay like this.


	11. semiten | jayus: a joke so poorly told and so unfunny that one cannot help but laugh

They’re really getting too big for this. It had been cute, during first year, for the four of them to sneak out of their dorm rooms and over to Wakatoshi’s, climbing onto his bed and gathering in close as Tendou demanded they talk about anything from volleyball strategy to their feelings on the latest Naruto plot twist. The first time, he’d done it to get a rise out of Wakatoshi—he always seemed so impassive, during practice, and Tendou couldn’t get along for three years with someone who didn’t react to anything. 

“Don’t be such an asshole to him,” Eita had said, grimacing as Tendou kept poking at Wakatoshi, literally and figuratively. 

“Should I be an asshole to you, instead?” Tendou had asked, and Eita had retaliated by shoving him off the bed and onto the floor. 

But soon enough he learned to read Wakatoshi, and all the rest of their teammates, and their late night gatherings became less about pissing each other off and more about enjoying their time together. Other things had changed, too—now, Eita isn’t as quick to jump to Wakatoshi’s defense, and they’re all likely to pick at each other out of habit, and sometimes they actually all get along. 

Tendou’s surprised by how quickly he’d grown used to them—Eita and Wakatoshi, Reon and Hayato. He doesn’t quite remember when he stopped thinking of himself as a mismatched piece and started seeing them all as a greater puzzle—something he still had to work on, but that he was sure would fit together eventually. 

Now, he knows their days like this are numbered. They’re not going to Nationals, and in a few months they’ll be looking forward to graduation and university. Half of the team’s already been scouted, and the rest of them are turning their wheels, about to let their lives fork before them, leaving one road untaken. 

“Stop being so quiet,” Eita says beside him, looking at Tendou through narrowed eyes. He looks tired, which is probably to be expected—Eita’s always better at fussing over other people than remembering to take care of himself. 

The two of them are leaning against the wall as they sit on Wakatoshi’s bed, Eita holding a pillow against his chest and Tendou letting his legs hang out across Wakatoshi’s mattress. Hayato’s at the foot of the bed, cross-legged, and Wakatoshi and Reon have pulled up chairs, completing their tiny circle. 

Tendou’s lost track of what they were talking about. 

As though picking up on this fact, Reon looks up and says, not unkindly, “Hayato’s got a girlfriend.”

Hayato grimaces and kicks at Reon’s shoulder. “I do not.”

“You just said you were going to meet her on Saturday,” Wakatoshi says, and Tendou must’ve been really out of it if Wakatoshi had been paying more attention than him to this sort of conversation. “Isn’t that a date?” 

“So a would-be girlfriend,” Eita decides, smirking. The light catches the white of his teeth as his lips pull away from them, and Tendou decides he likes it best when Eita looks a little mean. 

“What’s she like?” Reon asks, taking pity on Hayato and steering the conversation away from teasing. 

Hayato pulls a face, but that might be him biting down on a smile. “She’s—this tall,” he gestures a little below his own height, if he were standing. Of course that’d be the first thing he’d mention. “And she’s got short hair, but it’s light brown and really shiny, and she’s a wing spiker.” 

He rattles off a few other facts, leaning back with a stupid little smile while he does so. 

“Good for you,” Reon says, at the end of it. 

“That’s weird,” Tendou says, without thinking. Everyone turns to him, and he feels Eita elbow him in the side. “I mean—thinking of you, dating. You haven’t before, right?” 

Hayato scowls at him, but they’ve all learned to let Tendou’s taunts roll off their shoulders. “I had volleyball to worry about, before,” he mutters.

“And she did, too,” Wakatoshi says, nodding his head like he’s discovered something. Maybe he thinks all good matches are made in volleyball heaven. 

“We’ve all been busy,” Reon says. “It’s hard to balance dating with our schedules.” 

“That’s probably not the only obstacle, for some of us.” Eita rolls his eyes, casting a significant look around their small circle.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tendou asks, but not out of any real indignation. 

Eita takes the bait. “Who’d want to date you, Guess Monster?” he says, arching his eyebrows when Tendou pouts at him. 

“You should be asking who _I_ ’d want to date!” he declares loftily. 

“Here they go,” Reon murmurs. 

Hayato barks out a laugh. “Go ahead,” he says. “What’s your type, Tendou? Who d0 you want to date?”

Truth be told, he hasn’t thought about it much. Romance seems like a distant thing to him, and anyway his genre is shounen—romances there are notoriously unsatisfying and underdeveloped. He supposes, if he had to pick, he’d want someone who makes him feel the way he does right now—comfortable but challenged, like the way Eita doesn’t mind leaning against him but will jab him in the side the instant he gets out of line. 

“I don’t think I like girls,” Tendou says, after a moment, tapping his index finger against his chin as he thinks it over. “And we’d have to have shared interests. Something to talk about, y’know?”

By now Hayato’s laughing, and Reon has one hand in front of his face to hide his smile. “Sorry,” he says, “I’m just having a hard time imaging you on a date.”

“Anyway,” Hayato says, “that’s not even a type—that’s what everyone wants, whether they like girls or not.” 

“Maybe it would help to give an example,” Watakoshi says in that staid, focused way of his. Tendou blinks at him—he’d assumed that their captain had tired of this conversation several minutes ago. 

“Hm,” Tendou says, “Good idea, Wakatoshi-kun.” He laughs as he says this, but there’s something nervous fluttering in the pit of his stomach. It’s as good a sign as any that now’s the time to evade this question. 

“Unfortunately, Hayato is now taken,” Tendou says, mournfully. 

Hayato chuckles. “Sorry to disappoint you.” 

“And Wakatoshi-kun, while one hundred percent husband material, is simply too good for me,” Tendou continues, satisfaction sparking in him as Hayato continues chuckling and Reon smiles widely. 

Wakatoshi blinks. “I don’t think I want to be anyone’s husband.”

“A tragedy for all mankind!” Tendou declares, getting into the role now. “Reon, you are beautiful, but I couldn’t steal you from the genepool. You need to reproduce, it’s your duty to have beautiful, gifted volleyball players in the future.” 

Reon’s face takes on a reddish hue. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he starts to say, but Tendou’s next declaration swallows his words. 

“The kids are all too young, it’d be weird,” Tendou says, thinking of their underclassmen. 

“Some of the second years are only a few months younger than you,” Hayato laughs. 

“They’re our kids,” Tendou insists. “So I guess that leaves…” He cranes his head, even though Eita’s sitting right beside him. But Eita’s not laughing along with everyone else—he’s got his fingers dug into the pillow he’s holding, and he’s scowling something fierce. Tendou hasn’t seen him look this blatantly angry since their loss to Karasuno.

But Tendou’s mouth is working faster than his brain, and the next words escape before he can think better of them. “So it’ll be Semisemi, then—you’re a little too high maintenance to be a good boyfriend, but please take care of me!” 

It’s the punchline he’s been building toward for several minutes, and entirely expected. Reon and Hayato burst out laughing, and Tendou joins in. Even Wakatoshi looks mildly amused. 

Because of course, the idea is laughable—Eita’s been the object of countless girl’s crushes, the recipient of at least a dozen confessions. He’s got a pretty face and a killer serve and he exudes genuine care for the people around him, even if he’s not always great at conveying that. For all intents and purposes, Semi Eita is a catch. And Tendou isn’t stupid enough not to know how people think of _him_ , or how he looks, or how annoying he can be, on purpose or not.

So, _of course_ it’s funny. 

But he’s really not expecting Eita’s sudden huff, the rapid movement as he reaches out and shoves Tendou bodily off of the bed and onto the floor. Tendou lands in a heap, grunting as his elbows connect with Wakatoshi’s hardwood flooring. 

“Woah,” Reon says, “Are you okay?”

“Try not to crack the floor,” Wakatoshi puts in.

But Tendou’s already turning around to look back up at Eita, who looks nothing short of murderous. There’s a furious red blush crawling along his cheeks and over his nose, and when he catches Tendou staring at him he scowls fiercely and throws his pillow down at Tendou’s face for good measure. It hits with such impact that Tendou’s glad it wasn’t a volleyball. 

“I’m tired,” Eita says, pushing himself up off the bed and stepping towards the door. “I’m gonna go back to my room.”

He tries to keep his voice even, but Eita’s always been terrible at reigning in his emotions. There’s a quaver in his voice, his last word a hiccup as he pushes past the rest of them and then out the door.

“Wow,” Hayato says, a little disbelieving. “Seriously?”

“I mean,” Reon says bashfully, rubbing at the back of his neck, “It’s sort of obvious when you think about it.”

It’s Wakatoshi who turns to Tendou and arches a brow. “Why are you still sitting on my floor?”

It’s the last statement that sparks Tendou into motion. He leaps to his feet and runs out the door, down the hallways towards Eita’s room. 

He catches him halfway there, reaching out to grab Eita’s shoulder and turn him around forcibly. “Hold up,” he says, trying to catch his breath at the same time.

Eita turns around with fire in his eyes, batting away Tendou’s hand. “ _What_?”

“Eita,” Tendou says, a bit helplessly, “it was a _joke_.”

Eita backs up a step, arms crossed over his chest. “Yeah. I know.” 

“So…” Tendou tilts his head. “What’s the problem?”

“Nothing at all,” Eita says, turning again. “I just want to go to bed.”

The truth of it clicks a moment later.

“You don’t want it to be a joke?” Tendou calls out, and it’s weird what those words, what that thought, does to his insides. He doesn’t want to see Eita looking so completely hurt, but he also doesn’t want his own organs to be performing Olympic-level gymnastics routines in his gut. 

Eita turns around again, and this time Tendou recognizes the redness of his face—he’s _blushing_.

“Oh my god,” Eita groans, covering his face with his hands. 

And now Tendou’s laughing again, but it’s breathless and disbelieving rather than mocking. “Wait-- _seriously_?”

“Oh my god,” Eita says again. “I’m not going to say it, Satori.” 

“Well then you can’t get mad at me for not knowing!” 

“I can get mad at you for whatever I want!” Eita spits back. 

“That’s not fair,” Tendou whines, crossing the distance between them. “Eita, Eita—”

“ _What_ ,” Eita bites out, shoving at Tendou half-heartedly. 

“Next time I ask you out, I won’t do it in front of the others,” Tendou says sagely. “Is that better?”

Eita rolls his eyes skyward. “I can’t believe you,” he grumbles. And then, as an afterthought, “You better take me out for sushi.”

“As long as you don’t wear anything stupid,” Tendou chirps back.

Eita shoves him into the wall, but Tendou supposes that this has always been the tenor of their relationship. A little bit of sweetness, but a lot of bite.


	12. kuroken | cafuné: the act of tenderly running one’s fingers through someone’s hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> inspired by [this artwork](http://aurigaearts.tumblr.com/post/151239302275/warm-up-doodle-%E0%B8%85%CF%89%E0%B8%85).

It’s still new, new enough that Kuroo fears losing it. Kenma sleeps curled up on his side, his fingertips just barely touching the bare skin of Kuroo’s shoulder, his breath ghosting gently against him. They’d forgotten to draw the blinds last night, but as Kuroo blinks awake there’s no light yet filtering into the room. He turns slightly to one side, glancing at the flashing red numbers of his alarm clock—5:25. It’s still early, too early for him to be awake at all. And yet Kuroo gently nudges Kenma away and slips out of bed, pulling the covers up to Kenma’s chin afterward. Kenma murmurs something in his sleep, turning towards the lingering warmth on Kuroo’s pillow. Kuroo trails his fingers gently through Kenma’s hair, lingering on the curve of his cheek for one infinite moment. 

He pauses in the bathroom to splash water on his face and brush his teeth, a little more awake once he’s returned to the main room. His schoolbooks are stacked in a corner in neat piles, and he grabs a slim volume off the top of the pile. By the time he settles himself on the foot of the bed, soft lavender light spills into the room through the window, the sun yawning as it prepares to rise. Kuroo sits cross-legged on top of the covers, opposite to Kenma’s curled form on the bed. Facing towards the soft light, he flips open his book and begins to read. 

It’s easy to lose track of time as he gets lost in the text, occasionally pausing to scribble notes in the margins or flip back a few pages. The light in the room shifts from lavender to dusky rose, then pale orange. Just as golden, true light begins to hit the pages, Kuroo feels a sudden weight against his back. 

He turns his head halfway to see Kenma, curled up once more with his head and half his weight set against Kuroo’s back. The sunlight hits the crown of his head, and for a moment his dark roots don’t show at all—he’s all gold. His eyes are lidded more than halfway, and he yawns like a lion, every one of his teeth visible. 

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Kuroo whispers, keeping his index finger between the book’s pages to mark his place. “You should go back to sleep, it’s early.”

“I am sleeping,” Kenma says around another yawn. He fixes Kuroo with his typical state, but its undermined by the haze of sleep, the fluttering movements of Kenma’s lashes as his head lolls. 

“If you say so,” Kuroo agrees, turning back to his book. For a few moments the room is silent except for the rustling of book pages and Kenma’s soft breathing, more audible at intervals. 

“Kuro,” he says a little later, eyes still closed as he leans against Kuroo’s back, a familiar warmth, “You should have told me if you had too much work to do, this weekend.” 

It’s difficult for Kuroo not to feel the pang of guilt, the familiar sensation of being pulled in multiple directions and not giving enough to any one of them. Given the choice, he’d give all of himself to Kenma.

“It’s no big deal,” he says softly. “I still wanted to see you.” 

“Mm,” Kenma says, and if he’s still trying to sound chiding the tone is lost in another yawn. He shifts a bit on the bed, wrapping one arm around Kuroo’s waist and settling against him again. 

In a few hours, Kenma will be back on a train home before his school week starts, entrance exam preparations and volleyball practice overtaking his schedule again. And Kuroo will have a few hours at most to catch up on all the things he hasn’t done, because he begged Kenma to come spend time with him so he wouldn’t face another weekend in his empty apartment with only his coursework for company. 

Now, he takes the time to read through another few pages as Kenma stumbles restlessly from sleep to wakefulness, his nose tickling the hairs on the back of Kuroo’s neck as he moves. A minute later it’s Kenma’s fingers running through Kuroo’s hair, though it’d be impossible to say whether he’s trying to tame the wild locks or make them messier. Kuroo doesn’t mind either way; the motion itself is soothing and welcome, and he leans into the touch as he turns the page in his book. 

He’ll get up soon, he promises himself, and make breakfast. He and Kenma will have a few more hours together, and when he faces down another week he won’t feel alone.

**Author's Note:**

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